Justification
by Ferien
Summary: Why can't you just be more like Garen? Although seemingly an amazing Prince to many others, his father's words berated him throughout the years - no matter how much he did, it was never enough...he was always worthless, a disappointing son. His dying breaths full of hate and regret, he suddenly realized that he never had to do what he was told...[Evil/Corrupted Jarvan]


_Muddy clouds gathered together over the land, smoldering the sun as showers of rain accompanied them. The trees welcomed it greatly, the soft echoes of water on leaves resonating throughout the forest. It was calm – serene, a scene anyone would have found aesthetic, but it was quiet. Too quiet._

_But then a chilling cry filled the empty land as a flock of vultures settled upon what seemed to be a crimson, flowing lake, their beaks prodding against the unmoving lumps within it. One squealed in surprise, flying a considerable distance away as its presumed dinner suddenly moved, a weak groan coming from its mouth._

_Breaths coming in shallow gasps, he cursed himself angrily, his bloodied hand tightening on the dull lance resting besides him. His life was escaping him, but it was not the impending, inevitable death he was focused on._

_Everything. Everything he had done, worked so hard for…all of it had ended in failure. He was no leader, not the great cause everyone had believed he was. Time after time he had grasped at the visions of magnificence he dreamed of each and every day, yet they only seemed to slip further away._

_And he was numb now. His body was unresponsive, his last moments alone and desolate. His face burned uncomfortably, and it was only after he tasted the saltiness of the rain did he realize he was crying._

_He gritted his teeth, forcing down the large lump within his throat. It didn't matter. None of it did anymore. For whatever it was worth, this world was no longer his to care about. He never did, really._

_Tired eyes traveling to the weapon he still held, he mustered the last of his strength, bringing it up towards his heart. But the weapon trembled violently and he hissed at his weakness, forcing up yet another hand to steady his grip. Eyes closed tight, he sucked in a tight breath, drawing back the weapon. To be free of everything. That was all he had really ever wanted, an eternal darkness where nothing mattered. Could matter._

_But it never came. Try as he did, he was unable to budge the weapon one bit. Sputtering with anger, he commanded his hands to move. But they could not, would not…_

_"Stop."_

_It was not a mere word, but a command. Muddled within, he forced his eyes open, but all his blurry vision granted him was the looming image of something standing before him._

_And it was all he needed. Suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion, the weapon fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground soundlessly as his body followed. The darkness he had craved so long engulfed him, and with an empty mind, he finally allowed himself to fall into what he hoped would be eternal slumber._

* * *

><p><em>"WATCCHH OUT!"<em> The young, dark haired boy barely ducked in time, struggling with his grip as he barely blocked the falling sword in time. Butt met ground as he lost his balance, putting in everything he had just to sustain the strength of the blow.

But he refused to falter - placing a single hand on the ground, he pushed himself up, then grasped both sides of the wooden lance, swinging it in a 180 with all his might. A simple clang told him he had failed once again, and he was sent flying backwards in the very direction he had just gotten up from.

"Your stance is too awkward, Prince Jarvan..." His opponent, a lanky, brown-haired boy, trudged up to him. "You wield a lance with much power, but your moves are neither calculated nor artistic." He extended a hand, smiling encouragingly at his opponent. "Here. One more time."

Jarvan grit his teeth, the slightest hint of frustration flashing into his dark eyes before he nodded, reaching up to grasp the hand firmly, pulling himself up. "Perhaps I should have just picked the sword like you, Garen."

"Of course not, Prince Jarvan," the latter responded. "The lance suits royalty like you. I can see you wielding it quite magnificently in the future. It may be tough now, but even the Noxians will learn to fear your might!"

"If you say so..." Jarvan tightened his grip upon the lance once more, bending his knees ever so slightly. "Let's go!"

But before either of them could begin clashing again, a guard quickly approached them. After bowing, he turned to Jarvan, relaying a brief message. "The King wishes for your presence, Prince."

Jarvan sighed visibly, nodding as he handed his lance over to Garen. "I guess that's it for today. I'll work on perfecting my stance tomorrow, I promise."

Garen nodded enthusiastically. "I look forward to our progress, Prince Jarvan."

Trudging towards the direction of the throne room, the youngster found himself dreading the meeting with his father. While he was aware how tough negotiations were becoming with Noxus, it felt like he was always the one forced to succumb to his father's wrath for the entirety of the situation.

"Hello?" Hesitantly placing his hands on the large, steel doors before the throneroom, Jarvan pushed it open just slightly. "I'm here, Father."

"JARVAN!" The familiar roar - the boy winced in unease as he walked in, glancing around nervously until he spotted his Father sitting upon the throne. "Where were you yesterday at the community meet?!"

"I..." The Prince averted his gaze from his father's angry ones. He hated the community meet. It always felt like he was simply there for the public's hungry eyes to feast upon, to watch like some kind of animal in a zoo. Jarvan simply didn't understand how anyone in the royal family could stand the community meet - even Garen seemed like he enjoyed it, smiling happily and shaking each passing citizen's hand. "My stomach hurt."

"Don't you dare give me those kind of excuses!" Father thundered, pounding the throne angrily with a single fist. "Do you know how shamed I was to hear that you ran off somewhere during the meet again? The entire family was there, except you!"

Jarvan said nothing.

Then his father sighed, shaking his head in clear disappointment. "Why can't you be more like Garen?" he questioned. "Just yesterday, he won several lords' approval for hunting. Garen works so hard every day, yet he is not as privileged as you! Although both of you are still so young, I have great faith in his contributions to the country in the near future – but where are yours'?"

_This is your role, Jarvan. You must live up to it. Make your country proud. _The words had echoed through his mind countless times during his childhood. Yet over and over again, Garen, the son of the serving Crownguard family, had done better than him. No matter how many times he put his mind to it – hell, even his entire being, he just could not surpass him.

_Literature?_ Within days, Garen had had the entire nation's history memorized, from the very first war on the timeline to the most recent battle against our neighboring country. Each date, each location, every general and commander, yet Jarvan questioned himself why he should have even bothered committing to memory such useless facts.

_Formality? Greetings, instructor_, Garen stated firmly, complete with a swift bow and a smile so natural anyone would have thought he had been born with it plastered on his face. Yet Jarvan the Fourth, the _failure,_ stuttered, perhaps with an impatient demeanor, his words coming out awkward and a tad too quiet. And as usual, it had been met with that familiar, disappointed sigh.

_Swordsmanship? _Not a soul could deny his confidence in the wielding of his perfectly crafted sword. Once the mid-afternoon sun rose, one could hear his diligence practicing in the castle courtyards_. _A single, small slip and Jarvan would found himself pinned on the ground, swordpoint inches away from his neck. And Garen gazed would be gazing down at him, perhaps with a kindly intention, but every time, there was nothing but a torrent of emotions within the Prince that even he himself was unable to comprehend.

The addressed boy stood rigid, his small ten-year-old fists clenched tightly besides him as he averted his gaze from his father's piercing ones. There was nothing to say, not even one single, pitiful excuse to stand up for himself. Dismissed promptly, he wandered about the castle in a frenzied state. No matter how much he attempted to justify Father's words, he only ended up feeling powerless. He, Jarvan the Fourth, was weak, useless, and powerless. He was everything that Garen was not.

Somehow finally ending up on the castle's balcony, Jarvan found himself staring down at the castle grounds, at a distance, lone practicing figure within the grassy fields. Garen was showing off again, no doubt. The Prince glared down at the sight for a good, long moment before a thought planted itself within his mind - a thought that terrified even the young boy himself.

_I wanted him dead. No. Not even that. I wanted to see Garen suffer, each and every bone deliberately ripped from his body. I wanted to hear his agonizing screams as he suffered inevitable, excruciating pain. Absolutely nothing, nothing would satisfy me more…_

Suddenly realizing what he had wished for, Jarvan stopped in his tracks, the prominent beating of his heart filling his throat. _What were you thinking, Jarvan? _The boy whispered to himself. _Garen's done nothing wrong, yet here you are wishing destruction upon him…_

He then turned, forcing himself to take his eyes upon the sight. He needed to be practice. He needed to be strong. He, Prince Jarvan the Fourth, needed to uphold the entire nation. Yet, the thoughts he had that day never fully disappeared, shoved somewhere deep within him, acknowledging their existence yet terrified of them.

_They had become an inevitable part of him, a part that he would never be rid of..._


End file.
